


A King and His Knight

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blind Character, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2725403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King (\ˈkiŋ\): The male ruler of an independent state, especially one who inherits the position by right of birth.</p><p>Knight (/naɪt/): a person granted an honorary title of knighthood by a monarch or other political leader for service to the Monarch or country, especially in a military capacity. Historically, in Europe, knighthood has been conferred upon mounted warriors.</p><p>By their definitions, a King and a Knight are worlds apart. </p><p>This is a very different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by Vilkasdaina who wanted a story based on [this amazing artwork](http://a-bloody-big-ship.tumblr.com/post/26752381749) and with the prompt: Q being the king and Bond being his knight or bodyguard or similar. I'd love the gap in their status to be the focus, with their roles clearly defined in public, but behind closed doors, it's different. Your choice as to what 'different' means :)
> 
> So this is the one I took too far, because I integrated it with another plot that I had been toying around with for a long time, but had no real drive or motivation to write until this prompt showed up. I’m not sure if this will truly satisfy all of the original plot, but I hope it does! Posted separately from my Omnibus collection so that I can keep the chapters together. 
> 
> Cue historical inaccuracies about northern Scotland, how monarchies work in general, and anything and everything to do with whatever the hell time period this is. Also, there are knights and, despite that being my surname, I know little of them aside from Arthurian legend. SO, winging this like whoa. Hope you enjoy!

It seemed long ago that Sir James Bond swore his oath to Queen and Country. He had been so very young when he knelt before the throne, taken Queen Olivia’s hand in his, and kissed her ring in a public promise of loyalty. Not even twenty, he had bowed his head and taken the duty of an honourable Knight of her Court. He had gone on to serve her in combat for ten years, protecting the borders from enemies. After an injury on the battlefield weakened his ability with a sword, Bond then returned to the Highlands to act as head of her royal guard for another decade. She was a fierce, firm leader, carved from ice and stone, and although she could be unkind, she was never cruel. Everything she did was for her people, who loved her, just as her Knights loved her, just as Bond loved her as the mother he never had.

And then, in less than a fortnight, he had lost her. 

An illness came with the summer and took her away, just as it had done the King not even two years previous. The apothecary had been helpless to stop it, the fever that ravaged her for days before she finally succumbed. Stubborn to the end. 

With no immediate Mansfield heir--illegitimate or otherwise--the Court had no choice but to reach for the closest bloodline within the Queen’s extended family. 

That was when Q came. 

**00Q00Q00Q**

His name was Quillian Gaskell, the only son of Queen Olivia’s long deceased sister. She had been married off to a Duke of England, dying soon after Quillian was born. The Duke passed on only a few years after, leaving the boy to be raised by estranged family, house staff, and tutors. He had never been informed that he had a ruling monarch for an aunt in Scotland until her death. Other than those facts, Bond knew very little of the man, only glimpsing him momentarily at the funeral. He seemed far, far too young for the role of king, face pale and body waif-like in his mourning clothes. Two weeks later, when Bond attended his coronation--a happy occasion filled with visitors, a tournament, and a lavish feast--he looked just as fragile.

Throughout the proceedings, the King was quite reserved. His words were soft spoken, but concise, very much like the Queen’s had been. But where she commanded a room, he disappeared in it, and Bond worried for the kingdom. With such a ruler, how would they ever survive against their enemies? 

“He seems frail,” Sir Trevelyan commented, as they took their rounds one evening. The partygoers had long since gone and many had worked in the fields all day reaping their harvests, so the streets were all but deserted. Still, Bond preferred to err on the side of caution.

“You shouldn’t say such things where so many ears can hear you,” Bond warned him. 

“But he does, doesn’t he?” Trevelyan continued. “Not at all like the Queen. He probably won’t last the winter here.”

Bond refrained from comment, not wanting to utter his true thoughts, for they might be misconstrued as treason. 

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond had very little contact with the king, who he always seemed to catch out of the corner of his eye in corridors or sideways through angled windows. He saw him at court, of course, and the day the knights of the realm took their oath to serve him. But otherwise, the King remained elusive and out of sight, the complete opposite of his predecessor, who always had her finger in every metaphorical (and sometimes, actual) pie, when she was not attending to royal matters.

So it was a surprise when Bond came across him one rainy afternoon in a less-travelled corridor on the southeast side of the castle. Bond had cut through to avoid the rain en route to his rooms, and it was there that he discovered the King in all his finery, tucked into a stone alcove with his knees to his chest as if a child. 

He seemed to take no notice of Bond, looking out the window at the rain, but then he asked:

“What do you see?” 

There was something striking about the question, something that went straight to Bond’s core with an indescribable yearning and sorrow. It left him with barely enough breath, no control over the words that gracelessly tumbled from his lips.

“Nothing but rain, I’m afraid,” Bond replied, then hastily bowed his head respectfully when he realised he hadn’t done so, “your majesty.”

But the King seemed not to pay him any mind, still focussed on the foliage beyond the window.

“It rains here often, does it not?” 

His voice was so soft that Bond barely heard him. It was not the voice of the king, but someone who might be mistaken as infirmed. Looking at him, Bond thought a stiff breeze might carry him away, and wondered if he were ill. 

“It does indeed, your majesty,” Bond answered.

Something crossed the man’s expression that seemed to border between fatigued and annoyed.

“Please, no need for that.”

“Then what should I call you, your majesty?”

“Q is fine,” he replied. “I’m not used to such...formalities.”

Bond kept his expression neutral, not wanting his confusion to show. Certainly the son of a Duke would have a title and be accustomed to the lifestyle that came with it? An abundance of servants and lavish parties and gilted finery, all those things that Queen Olivia took in small doses and self-restraint. But it seemed that his king was more than he appeared, as mysterious as the single letter he preferred over his given name. 

“It’s...surely not appropriate…?” Bond ventured, striving for some propriety.

“I am the King, am I not? Certainly I should be permitted to decide what is appropriate and what isn’t?” Q inquired.

“Of course…” Bond replied, still slightly unsure.

“Go on, say it.”

“Of course... Q.”

Q smiled, as if they were friends, and there was something about it that made Bond both giddy and nervous.

“Thank you. And what might I call you?”

“I am Bond. Lord James Bond of Skyfall.”

“Skyfall,” Q repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now that’s a melancholy name. _Skyfall._ ”

“I suppose so.”

“Might I call you James? Or is that inappropriate?”

Q grinned, and Bond had to wonder if he imagined a bit of mischief beneath the playfulness he saw there.

“You may call me whatever you wish.”

“James,” he said, and smiled that smile again before turning back to look out the window. “You were close with my aunt, were you not?”

“I served her for many years,” Bond answered.

“What was she like?” Q asked, his voice almost childlike in its inquiry. 

“A remarkable Queen,” Bond replied. 

“But what was she like?” Q pressed. 

“Stubborn, but fair. Even-tempered, always well-spoken. She could be harsh, but only when the situation called for it.”

Q nodded, expression unreadable, but Bond had a feeling he had not answered the question to his satisfaction. 

“Would you mind?” Q asked, holding out his hand to Bond. His fingers were long and pale, his wrists so small that Bond did not doubt he could easily break the bones with a single squeeze. When Bond took hold of his hand, the flesh felt cool and dry, as if he had been sitting in the window seat for hours in the chill of the unlit corridor. 

Q stood with his aid, almost as tall as Bond when they were side by side. So close, Bond could not help but observe the King’s beauty; he had skin as smooth and pale as any maiden and thick, dark waves of hair. But most stunning were his eyes, a green deeper and richer than any forest Bond had ever seen. The king turned his face toward Bond, slightly angled to the left so that his gaze fell just short of Bond’s, resting at his shoulder, just below his ear. 

And that was when Bond realised that his king was as beautiful as he was afflicted. 

Q was blind.

**00Q00Q00Q**

After that day, the King began requesting Bond for escort and consul. These meetings were stiff and formal at first, but soon turned into enjoyable, relaxing occasions that Bond most looked forward to in between his other duties. They reminded him of his days with Queen Olivia, who would often call on him for a verbal spar or two about literature or war tactics. But with Q, there was only passionate discussion and lighthearted disagreement. Their topics varied from science and philosophy to mythology and their time together could stretch for hours without either of them noticing. 

“Have you read it?” Q asked. 

It was the first day without rain, so they had taken the opportunity to walk out of doors that afternoon. With the garden paths too muddy, Bond kept them contained to the courtyard, a steadying arm supporting Q as they tread over rain slick cobblestones. Bond had been too busy watching Q’s footing to have been paying much mind to the question.

“Read what?” Bond inquired.

“Was I boring you with my conversation?” Q replied, raising an eyebrow in Bond’s general direction. 

“Not at all, your majesty. Just making sure you don’t break your royal neck.”

Q laughed, as light and clear as a spring day.

“Very considerate of you.”

They walked a few more steps without incident, and then Bond said:

“Wait, you can read?”

“Of course I can.”

“Even with…” Bond trailed off uncertainly. 

They had never outright spoken of Q’s affliction. From afar, Q seemed capable as anyone, but sometimes Bond saw him stumble, saw him reach out to steady himself in a corridor, noticed that he sometimes used a cane that he tapped on nearby objects to avoid running into them. The court knew, of course, but did a good job of hiding it from others, not wanting it to be a known fact that their new king had such a weakness. 

“I’m not blind, you know,” Q said, pressing his fingers against Bond’s wrist lightly. The simple touch had Bond’s blood singing a chorus of inappropriate desire, which he wrestled down out of sheer willpower. 

“I take it from your silence that you doubt me?” 

“You nearly toppled down the stairs the other day,” Bond reminded him. If it hadn’t been for Bond’s quick reflexes, he might not have caught Q’s arm just in time, pulled him to his chest _just so_ to feel the brush of a silken curl against his chin. Bond would not admit to the traitorous thoughts that entered his mind in that moment, and later that evening when he was alone. Although the Knights sometimes engaged in such activities when on the war front, they were quiet, unspoken of affairs between men of equal standing. Thinking of Q that way would be dishonourable. Bond glanced away from Q and looked in the other direction, despite his king’s inability to see his flush. He cleared his throat. “And you walked into a door less than a fortnight ago.”

“Gracefully,” Q corrected him. “I walked into that door gracefully, like a King would, of course.” 

“You’re lucky you didn’t injure yourself,” Bond said. 

“Oh, yes. A true tragedy if I ruined this pretty face?” Q answered, with nothing but humour.

“The worst sort,” Bond agreed. 

They turned round the edge of the courtyard, passing by a group of knights on patrol. Bond’s men glanced at them curiously, but continued on their way. It wasn’t until they were out of range that Q continued their conversation.

“No, but not blind. Not completely. I can see, just a bit,” Q explained. “Distance is impossible for me, but I can see some shapes. Colours mostly. Some detail up close, too. I can read, too, it just takes some time. I get headaches if I force myself, so I often times find myself imploring someone to read to me.”

“Would you like that?” Bond asked, before he could stop himself.

“Like what?” Q asked. 

“Someone to read to you. I could, I, that is, if you would like,” Bond offered, doing his best not to jumble his words.

Q smiled and the tips of his cool fingers brushed the back of Bond’s hand.

“I would like that very much.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

With the beginning of autumn came the final harvest, a pressing time for the kingdom as winter approached. The window between the start of the season and the first frost seemed to shorten every year. 

The King was undoubtedly busy at this time, and Bond rarely saw him. When their paths crossed, Bond referred to him as _your majesty_ and bowed as he was expected, but they did not converse more than a few words at a time. It was customary, for although the knights were Lords in their own right, their noble blood was there for service of royalty and nothing more.

But although Q was kingly in public, he was never unkind. Much like his aunt, he listened more than he spoke, regardless of class differences, and Bond heard much praise of him in the streets and taverns as the weeks passed.

“They’re my people now. You all are. And a King is nothing without his people,” Q said, when Bond brought it up. They were in Q’s private chambers, where Q was _Q_ and Bond was _James_ and the book they had been reading together had been long forgotten.

“That’s wise from someone so young,” Bond commented, as he stood up to stretch his legs.

“I am not that young,” Q replied, frowning as he always did when Bond quipped about his age.

“Younger than me.”

“Of course. You’re ancient.”

Bond picked up a tasseled pillow from Q’s bed and tossed it at him. It hit Q on the side of the head, knocking his crown askew. Q gave him a long-suffering look as he righted the crown, but Bond could tell he was trying for sternness, when in reality he was doing his best to not smile.

“You just threw a pillow at a blind man.”

“You called me old.”

“A blind man who is also your King.”

“Don’t pull the blind card. You said you’re not blind.”

“You threw a pillow at your King.”

Bond should have been horrified at his behaviour, but something about Q brought out a playfulness in him he thought had abandoned him long ago. 

“You called me old,” Bond said again.

“You called yourself old,” Q replied. 

Bond felt his mouth quirking in a grin, something that he couldn’t quite help. 

“You know I’m right, so stop smiling,” Q warned him.

“I’m not smiling.”

“I can hear you smiling.”

“I am not smiling.”

Q threw the pillow back at him with surprisingly good aim. Bond leant to the side, sending the offending object whizzing past his ear.

“You almost had me,” Bond said.

“One of these days, I will,” Q answered.

There was something about the way he said it that made Bond take pause. Q cleared his throat and began touching the things on his desk unnecessarily, trying to look busy. 

“Don’t you have something to do?” Q asked. 

“I was reading to you,” Bond reminded him, returning to the chair next to Q’s desk. He picked up the neglected book and tried to find the paragraph where they had left off. “Did we talk about how sinful it is to lie with goats?”

“No, so now I think you’ve gone and spoiled the ending,” Q said, and he was smiling now, though Bond wished it was at him instead of his right elbow. 

He closed the book and placed it on the desk.

“Q,” Bond began, but stopped when there was a light tapping on the door. 

“Come in,” Q called, and the door opened. A man appeared, one of the servants that had come with Q on his journey from the south. He bowed his head respectfully to Q and to Bond, but his eyes looked uneasy. He shifted something in his hands, as if trying to hide it from Bond’s gaze.

“Apologies to disrupt you, your majesty,” the man began, and glanced again at Bond as if nervous, “but I’ve brought, ah, what you requested.”

“It’s alright. Sir Bond is aware of my condition. There is no need for such delicacy,” Q replied, and the man breathed a sigh of quiet relief. His hands revealed a small bottle of yellow liquid with a crystal stopper, which he placed into Q’s outstretched palm. “Thank you, Dreyfus. And goodnight.” 

“Goodnight your majesty,” he said, and was gone as quickly as he came. 

Q placed the bottle on the table, his fingers tracing over the smooth edges, pensive. 

“It’s getting late. Perhaps we should retire,” Q said, more like a king and less like the man Bond had come to know in the past months. 

“What is it?” Bond asked, and when Q did not answer, he stretched his hand across the desk, tracing the tips of his fingers along the side of Q’s. The skin was soft beneath his calluses. 

“An elixir,” Q answered, without pulling away, “for my health. I take it every evening.”

Bond couldn’t control the jerk of his fingers at the words, at the thought of Q being ill and needing potions from the apothecary on a daily basis. 

“I’m fine,” Q said, as if reading his thoughts, “it’s for my eyes. A fever took my sight when I was young, but this has enabled me to retain a small portion of vision.”

“Oh,” Bond said, feeling foolish. “Do you...need help?” 

He thought Q might become sullen with stubbornness, as he sometimes did when Bond offered to do something that Q thought he could do himself. But there was only a bit of vulnerability in Q when he said:

“If you would, please.”

Q instructed him from there, directing him towards flannels and a wash basin filled with cool water. 

“You have to use it all, even if I tell you I don’t want it,” Q explained, when Bond returned with the items. 

“Does it hurt?” Bond asked, and Q smiled something sad at him. 

“Doesn’t everything?”

Bond did not answer, not wanting to think about the injury to his shoulder that had taken him from the battlefields, not wanting to think about losing Queen Olivia before her time, not wanting to think any sad thoughts when he felt the strands of Q’s silken hair against his palm as he tipped his head back gently.

He then reached for the vial. The stopper doubled as an instrument for dropping solution into the eyes, mouth, or nose, something Bond had become familiar with on the battlefield. But here, in Q’s room, Bond was not prepared for the way Q hissed as the liquid blossomed goldenrod in his unseeing eyes. The excess medicine trickled from the corners of his eyes, diluted with tears, and Bond hurried to blot it away with a damp cloth. 

He did this until the vial was empty, two more times, all while telling himself that Q wasn’t crying, not really, not even when the liquid coming from his eyes began to run clear. Bond knelt before Q’s chair, pressing the cool fabric to his trembling lids until the discharge stopped.

“Alright?” Bond asked, as Q blinked and squinted in discomfort. 

Bond leant in closer, cloth at the ready should he find any lingering solution. But all he saw was the deep green of Q’s irises, remarkably clear and unclouded despite his condition. And so very, very beautiful. It took him a moment too long to realise how inappropriate his thoughts were, and regretfully Bond began to withdraw, but a gentle hand stilled him before he could move too far. 

“Your eyes are blue.”

“Hm?” Bond asked, dabbing at Q’s cheek with the flannel, anything to distract himself from the feelings he knew he ought not to feel. And it was difficult when Q had his hand on Bond’s arm, when they were close enough that Bond could see the residual droplets of golden elixir in Q’s eyelashes. 

“They’re beautiful.”

Bond didn’t know what to say, because Q was looking at him, really _looking_ and he felt it again: that rush of something so striking that Bond forgot how to breathe, like he had the day they met and Q had asked _what do you see_?

“I’m sorry,” Q said, averting his eyes, “you must forgive me. It’s not often that someone comes close enough for me to see them clearly.” 

There was desire there, Bond could tell, even if the words were not uttered. Bond could read it in Q’s body, the flush of his skin, the redness to his lips, and it was very, very wrong, but.  
Instead of retreating, Bond moved closer, brushing his lips against Q’s. It was the epitome of impropriety, but Bond could not resist, not when his days had been filled with Q’s voice and laughter and his nights were nothing but loneliness and desire for the next accidental brush of hands and fingers and skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Bond said when he pulled back, bowing his head. The heat of his skin abated somewhat, clearing his thoughts. Despite their apparently mutual feelings they could be nothing more than what they were. Society would not stand for it; even a private union between them would be shameful, especially if ever exposed. It could ruin Q, which was the last thing Bond could ever wish. “It was inappropriate.”

“It was,” Q said. 

His fingers came to Bond’s hair and moved through the short strands, as gentle as a lover’s caress. Bond shivered under the touch, which trailed from temple to jaw to chin, and before he could stop himself, Bond reached for Q’s hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed the peaks of Q’s knuckles, close, yet so far from where the king’s signet ring rested on his second to last finger. It was dangerous, yes, but Bond could think of no worse punishment than not ever having placed his lips to the sweet, pale flesh of such beautiful hands. 

“I can forgive you,” Q continued, and turned his hand to brush his thumb across Bond’s lips, “but only if you promise me one thing.” 

Bond looked up at Q, whose expression was unreadable. 

“Anything,” Bond replied.

“You must promise me,” Q began, with a sternness that only a king could possess, “that these lips are mine and mine alone.”

And then Q smiled, easing the stitch of doubt and fear in Bond’s chest. It would be dangerous, yes, but a happiness that Bond knew would be worth it. 

So the knight took his king’s hand and pressed those pale fingers to his mouth, where he kissed the very tips of them as he smiled, too. 

“I can think of no higher honour, your majesty.”


	2. Chapter 2

The last few weeks of autumn were unseasonably warm and dry, allowing the red and orange foliage to linger longer and more brilliantly than Bond had seen in many years. He found himself, like many others, striving to be out of doors as often as possible before the snows inevitably came, and that time was made all the more enjoyable with Q at his side.

From the perspective of the outsider, not much had changed between Bond and his King. They could still be seen together in the morning taking turns in the courtyard together or in corridors as Q made his way from one meeting to another. The servants and guards did not even glance Bond’s way when he went to Q’s rooms in the late afternoons and early evenings for them to read together.

But some things had changed. When they walked together in the mornings, Q would often touch Bond’s hand, slip their fingers together beneath the sleeves of his robes, and hold onto him for the duration of their visit. Sometimes, between meetings, Bond would escort Q through the castle on a longer path, just so they could have a moment of privacy in a particular alcove on the lower floors that no one knew of, where no one could see the quick, desirous brush of lips. Bond knew it was dangerous, but every time Q touched him, kissed him, he forgot his concerns entirely.

He was truly, madly overwhelmed with his deep feelings for Q, a passion that he had not felt towards another person in a long while. It made Bond feel young again, eager for the possibility of a happiness he had thought out of reach for him. Before Bond knew it, he was wooing Q. He gathered the last autumn flowers in the meadows and wrote him lines of adoring, rhyming verse, and went on hunts with the men for the most luscious of pelts to place upon Q’s bed. A bed, he hoped, might one day be shared by the two of them.

Until then, Bond felt joyous to see Q’s smile, and sought every opportunity to see it again and again.

“Where are we going?” Q asked, his voice hushed, his bare hand small and smooth in Bond’s.

“It’s a surprise,” Bond replied.

“Should I close my eyes?” Q asked, with a teasing grin. Bond had to resist kissing it from his mouth.

“Come along,” Bond said, tugging Q to his side as they entered the courtyard.

It was still early, but they had arranged for this meeting the night prior, and while the servants slept on this chilly morning, they mounted Bond’s steed and sped off into the forest. Q leant back into Bond’s arms as they navigated their way through the winding, hoof-beaten path, which lead to an elevated meadow overlooking the southern fields. Due to the early hour, the fields were muted grey and awash in fog.

When they stopped at a small clearing, Bond dismounted first and secured his horse. Then he touched Q’s elbow and held out his arms to the other man, helping him down. Q held onto him for a moment, his disorientation clear.

“Alright?” Bond asked.

“I am with you, am I not?” Q replied, his expression brightening when Bond kissed his temple. “But now the secrecy is over. Where are we?”

“Atop Shelter’s Ridge, overlooking the rye fields,” Bond answered, adjusting the collar of Q’s robe so that his bare neck would not be exposed to the cold. “When the skies are clear, you can see all the way to the river from this spot.”

“And what does it look like today?” Q asked.

“What do you see?” Bond asked, moving his arms round Q’s middle from behind, folding the other man into his embrace to keep him warm.

“Nothing but grey...it’s sort of dark out that way. Maybe trees?” Q said, squinting at the landscape before him. “And...what’s that? Something...lighter?”

Bond smiled into Q’s hair.

“Oh! Is that..?”

The sun was just beginning to filter in through the trees, a hazy orange glow in the foggy morning. Bond knew that Q could not see the landscape for all its beauty, but at least he could enjoy the first rays of dawn light, feel the warmth of it upon his face as the sun rose into the sky.

“Good morning, my King,” Bond said, placing a kiss just below Q’s ear.

“You spoil me,” Q replied, the back of his neck flushed with colour. Bond trailed his lips along the bit of exposed skin, dragging them up into the soft, dark curls at Q’s nape.

“Aren’t kings supposed to be?” Bond inquired.

“Oh, hush. I’m no more a king than I am a knight, you know that,” Q said.

“Perhaps you may think that, but you are the one wearing a crown,” Bond pointed out.

“And a heavy crown it is,” Q sighed, removing the circlet. He held the band between his palms, and at his heavy look of concentration, Bond placed his hands atop Q’s as a distraction.

“Crown or not, I want to spoil you,” Bond said, as he placed the circled band back upon Q’s head “and I intend to do so this fine morning.”

“You keep me in suspense,” Q answered.

Bond brought Q to his horse and placed his hand upon her withers.

“It will be worth the wait,” Bond promised, as he unhooked the bundle from the back of his saddle and took it over his arm.

He found a nice, flat space, then unrolled the heavy fabric. It was a blanket that he had taken from his own chambers, one filled with the down from birds he had hunted and killed himself. It was exceptionally warm and would keep the cold of the earth at bay. Bond spread the fabric out upon the ground, then deposited the furs and wool throws that he gathered from his horse’s saddle bags. Q stood by the mare, patting her neck and cheek as Bond worked. It made him proud that Q finally felt comfortable around her, his fear of the large animal seemingly overcome the more often Bond took him out riding.

“Come,” Bond said, taking Q’s hand when he had finished.

His fingers were cold, and Bond held them in his own to warm them. As he did this, he led Q to the blanket and had him sit, then draped him in the furs and wool to keep him comfortable.

“Do I look foolish in this?” Q asked, burrowing down into the fur, until only his eyes and dark hair were visible.

“Not at all,” Bond said, laughing at the display.

“You say as you laugh at me,” Q said, smiling at Bond.

“I mean it in only the most heartfelt way,” Bond answered, as he pulled his satchel close to him. He had yet to unpack its contents, but now that they were both seated, he began to, removing breads and cheeses and meats, as well as a flask of wine.

“Did you bring breakfast?” Q asked.

“Of course,” Bond said, as he tore off a piece of bread from the loaf and began arranging hunks of cheeses and meats upon it. “I wouldn’t dream of waking you so early and exposing you to the wilderness like this without offering you some form of sustenance.”

“A true gentleman,” Q replied.

“Part of the Knights’ code, I believe,” Bond answered, “now, have a taste.”

They feasted upon a small, hearty breakfast and enjoyed the sunrise, the first bell of the morning hour.

“We should return soon,” Q murmured.

“Not right away,” Bond said, draping the wool over Q’s shoulders from where it had fallen. “Let’s enjoy the peace for a little longer.”

“I wish I could stay out as long as I liked, but…”

Q sighed and leant back against him, a warm, solid weight against his chest that made Bond’s heart feel so full of happiness.

“I won’t keep you long. Just until the next hour tolls,” Bond promised, as he reclined until the two of them were lying down upon the soft blankets and pillows. Q made a pleased sound at their closeness, when Bond tucked him a little more firmly against his chest. But after a moment, he began tossing his head, as if uncomfortable.

“Well if we are to retire here for another hour, I’m taking this bloody thing off,” said Q, as he removed his crown with a bit of disdain. He deposited the band upon the blanket near their heads, out of the way.

“I know many a man who would value that crown. It would feed his family for years,” said Bond.

“Then they can have it. It gives me a headache,” replied Q, as he settled down next to Bond again. But he had no sooner done so before he raised his head again. “Tell me it isn’t so. Are the people starving? Do you think the children are not getting enough to eat?”

“Rest easy,” Bond said, placing a hand on Q’s shoulder, “the people are fine after a prosperous harvest. It is winter that is hardest.”

“Certainly the royal granary can offer help to those who need it,” Q said.

“If the King permits it. The Queen allowed the royal stores to be tapped during particularly hard winters, but only when the snows were at their worst.”

“I’ll see to it that the needs of the people are met.”

“No more lavish meals at the palace?” Bond teased. Just as the Queen had been, Q was frugal, and never had an overabundance of food that could potentially go to waste.

“And how could I feast when people are going hungry?”

“Spoken like a wise king.”

Q closed his eyes and sighed.

“This is what gives me headaches. I worry too much, I think…”

“And that will endear you to your people.”

Q did not say anything, simply moved closer beneath the furs until he was pressed against Bond’s side from shoulder to knee. But even in the silence, Bond could almost hear the buzz of Q’s thoughts. He twirled a finger round a dark curl and asked:

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing but foolish thoughts,” Q answered

“What manner of foolish thoughts?” Bond inquired.

“The sort that ought not be spoken aloud.”

“Why not? Do you fear someone might overhear?”

“Nay, I fear what you might think of me.”

Bond moved back slightly, so that they were nose to nose, knowing that it was only possible for Q to see him somewhat clearly at that short distance.

“I can only think good things of you,” Bond said, “because there is nothing but good in you.”

“Such a Knight,” Q murmured fondly, his lips brushing Bond’s. “If I knew it not to be impossible, I would believe your heart that of pure gold.”

“And it is yours,” Bond said, pressing Q’s hand to his chest. “It belongs to you.”

Q smiled, but it seemed hesitant and uncertain. Afraid.

“And what of your heart?” Bond asked gently.

“That is an answer that I cannot give hastily,” Q replied, trailing his fingers along the emblem across Bond’s chest, away from his heart towards his shoulder. “You must understand...I’m not experienced in the ways of the heart. I’ve never been given any sort of opportunity...and I’m uncertain that I would be able to reciprocate properly with my...affliction.”

Bond traced his fingers along Q’s cheek, up into his soft hair. Q closed his eyes at the affection, leaning into Bond’s hand with the innocent expression of a child.

“I cannot believe such a thing,” Bond said.

“Perhaps you’re biased.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.”

Q made a noncommittal sound and nestled closer to Bond’s chest, curling the furs more completely around them for warmth.

“I am fortunate that my station in life has provided me with what I have,” Q said quietly. “I have no real skills to speak of. I cannot wield a sword or a bow like a knight. I cannot raise and slaughter livestock like a farmer. I cannot read well or speak elegantly about the Lord like a priest. There really is no purpose for me in this life except to be a burden to others. And so asking for anything else, especially the companionship of another, would be selfish of me.”

“It is never a selfish thing to want to love and be loved,” Bond said.

“It is,” Q murmured against Bond’s throat. “The kind of love that I want is inherently selfish. I couldn’t ask someone to go against God for me, not when I am afflicted so. Not when I can offer nothing of value to such a union. There would be only strife.”

Q shivered, and Bond pulled him closer.

“And if this heart didn’t believe in what you call selfishness? If it didn’t care about going against God? If it cared nothing of your affliction?” Bond asked, breathing deeply in Q’s curls. “If it only wanted to love you from this day onward?”

In the distance, the bell tolled.

“We should return,” Q said, and made to pull away, but Bond held him fast.

“Q,” he began, but a pair of lips silenced him.

“No more of this now,” Q said softly, “let us speak of it tonight. Will you come to my chambers at the change of the night guard?”

“Of course,” Bond replied.

“Take the servant stairwell. You will encounter no one that way,” Q said, as he sat up. His cheeks were flushed, and Bond kissed them both, watching as the blood reddened them further at his affection.

“Of course,” Bond said again.

They rode back to the castle in silence. Q was pensive and distracted, only coming back to himself with a jump or a breathy laugh when Bond pressed cold kisses to the backs of his ears and the nape of his neck.

“What’s that for?” Q asked.

“I want to see you smiling,” Bond answered.

“I am smiling.”

“You are now.”

Q laughed, and some of the tension faded.

“Sir Bond, how you baffle me at times.”

“One of my strongest attributes, I’m told.”

Bond stole one more quick kiss, this one at the corner of Q’s mouth, before they came into view of the castle. But the moment they were in sight, Bond knew something was wrong. The main gate had been raised, as it was every morning at the toll of the first bell, but there were too many men and horses and carts crowding the entrance.

“What’s going on?” Q asked, sounding concerned as he sat up a bit straighter in the saddle. Even Q, with his poor eyesight, could tell that something was different, and Bond gave his hand a squeeze to comfort him.

“I’m not sure,” Bond admitted, but the closer they got, the more of an idea formed in his mind. The men were not traders or merchants or farmers. They were soldiers wearing the green and silver emblems of their allied kingdom to the west.

When they rode past, Bond saw their troubled expressions, their dirty armour and muddy horses. They looked as if they had just lost a battle and Bond felt something bitter and acrid in his throat. The only reason they would be there was if their mutual enemy in the Southern kingdom had violated the treaty and trespassed across the border.

And that meant war.

“James…” said Q, his voice quiet, slightly trembling as Bond navigated them directly to the castle. “James, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” Bond said.

“Don’t patronise me,” Q replied stiffly, formally. “What is going on?”

“King Mallory’s men are here,” Bond answered.

“King Gareth Mallory of the Western Lands?” Q asked.

“Yes,” Bond said.

Q didn’t say anything as they passed the guards of the castle wall, as the made their way to the centre courtyard. But when Bond dismounted and Q put his trembling hand into his as he slid off the horse, Bond heard him breathe out:

“Are we at war?”

“It...is too early to say,” Bond answered, not wanting to say yes.

Not bearing the thought of having to say yes.

Bond had no sooner sent off his horse with a stablehand when a familiar member of the Council appeared. It was William Tanner, looking the most troubled Bond had ever seen him in the ten years they had known one another. He did not even manage a formal bow to the King before he launched into speech:

“Your Majesty, I apologise for interrupting your morning ride, but we have a situation which requires immediate attention.”

“Pray tell, what is it?” Q asked, looking rather pale.

“Please come presently to the throne room. King Mallory awaits with an urgent request.”

“Of course, I will come at once.”

Tanner nodded, gave another hasty bow, and hurried off. The moment he was out of sight, Bond gently touched Q’s elbow in a gesture he hoped might be soothing, comforting. But Q’s unfocused gaze remained stormy and unmoving; it made Bond want nothing more than to steal him away so that he could hide him from the rest of the world.

“Q…” Bond began.

Q lifted his head slowly, seeming to struggle under the weight of his heavy crown.

“I would appreciate it if you would escort me,” Q said, and it was with such numbness that Bond could not manage a vocal reply.

He nodded, but fearing that Q could not see him clearly enough, then touched Q’s elbow again and began leading him into the castle. It was filled with the noise of hundreds speaking, whispering to one another. The servants were in fits, the Council members even more so in the wake of King Mallory’s unexpected arrival, accompanied by his ambassadors and knights and servants. Bond knew that Q detested noise. He had told Bond it made it difficult for him to keep his bearings. Because of this, Bond did not remove his hand from Q’s arm, despite what others might construe as impropriety.

The moment Q arrived in his chambers, his servants whisked him away to be washed and put into formal reception robes. It was done very quickly, without the usual ceremony, for the matter was urgent, after all. And Q looked resplendent in his crimson, fur lined robes and the formal gold crown that Bond had not seen since his coronation.

Bond wanted to say something comforting, but Q’s lips were pale and he looked ill, so Bond refrained. And when Q reached for him--a half-motion of his hand so minute that Bond doubted anyone else saw--Bond took hold of him and pressed his fingers gently into the curve of his wrist, saying without words _It will be alright._

How Bond wished it would be so.

By the chime of the next bell, they had arrived in the Throne Room. There, both Q and King Mallory’s Councils had convened, along with both kingdoms’ head Knights, Bond among them. He stood among the ranks, feeling worry gnaw at his belly as he watched Q and the other King exchange civil words and greetings.

They were allies, yes, but Bond could tell immediately that King Mallory did not expect to be dealing with such a young monarch, one from a far away land who knew nothing of their strife with the kingdom to the South.

“Let us hear of the situation,” Q said, his soft voice amplified by the room so that all could hear.

King Mallory spoke in great depth from thereon out. Just listening to him, Bond could tell that he was a gifted military strategist. He had the knowledge of the lands, of the law, and of his resources. His voice carried a charismatic eloquence to it that appealed to Bond as a Knight, but the other part of him felt conflicted the longer he listened, the longer he watched Q become more and more grave as the moments passed.

“Therefore, I propose that we gather our armies now and strike. We must not lose precious time,” King Mallory said. “They will not expect us to attack with winter so close. They will not be prepared. I believe that we may be able to end this before it even begins.”

“And diplomatic means are entirely impossible?” Q questioned.

“They will not negotiate,” King Mallory said, addressing the Court more than Q. Bond watched as many heads nodded in agreement. Even Bond was tempted to nod with them. The war with the Southern Kingdom had been hard fought and even harder won. The peace between them had been flimsy at best, and now after Queen Olivia’s death, it was nothing but an empty promise.

“I ask that you will lend us your armies,” King Mallory continued, looking at Q for the first time. “My men were ambushed. Many were slain at the border. Those that are left are here, and weary. If we are to return to a time of peace, we need the proper army to do so.”

Q looked very conflicted, and Bond’s heart nearly broke for him. In their afternoons walking and reading, Q had confessed himself a pacifist. He did not enjoy bloodshed or condone violence in any way. Bond doubted he had ever hurt an insect, let alone considered inflicting pain upon another person. Bond did not need to wonder what it felt like to be asked to give the order, the order that would send many to their deaths.

Bond knew firsthand what that sort of guilt felt like.

But Q did not have to ask. One by one, his Knights put themselves forth and knelt before him, swearing their allegiance and dedication. And then Bond went and knelt with them. He did not have to lift his head to know that Q’s gaze rested heavily upon him.

“If my Knights wish to fight for this cause, then I am in full agreement. How do you believe we should proceed?” Q inquired.

King Mallory did not give many details, but insisted upon dividing their Knights into three groups: those on the front, those protecting the fallback border, and those providing support to the villages and other territories that might be targeted because of their proximity to the fighting. It was agreed and signed then and there that any supplies required would be provided for by both allied Kingdoms. Refugees would be given safe haven in Q's territory should it become necessity.

The only disagreement seemed to be which King would lead the campaign on the front. It seemed that Q was suspicious of King Mallory’s motives, whereas King Mallory did not believe Q had the experience to make such important tactical decisions. In the end, it was decided that the Councils would convene and make their recommendations. They would meet again at sunset.

“I have a bad feeling,” Q confessed, when he and Bond were alone in his chambers.

“Then think only good thoughts,” Bond advised, coming close to him.

He drew Q to him and removed his heavy crown, just so he could smooth his fingers through Q’s hair. Q closed his eyes and hummed at Bond’s touch.

“There now. How is that?” Bond asked.

“I’m trying,” Q murmured, “but I still have a bad feeling.”

Bond kissed his forehead, and then his brow, and then his eyelids. The thin flesh trembled beneath his lips.

“And now?” Bond asked.

“I don’t know,” Q replied, his exhale a sigh.

So Bond kissed him softly about the cheek and nose and mouth, until finally Q laughed at the prickly stubble upon Bond’s chin.

“Worry not,” Bond told him.

Q smiled, a tired, but brave thing.

“I will try.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond stood in the darkened stairwell, waiting for the tell-tale sound of the changing of the night guard. Despite the events of the evening, already the castle had settled down for the night. Even the excited, anxious murmurs of the staff had quieted. Bond honestly didn’t know how, not when they were going to war again.

Not when Bond would be leading them.

He leant against the stone wall and breathed to calm his racing heart. It had been unexpected to hear that both Councilmen had chosen him, of all Knights, to return to the battlefield. Apparently Bond had a reputation: the only surviving Knight of the Summer War ten years previous. King Mallory had been impressed with his credentials, uncaring of his injury or his decade of non-combat. He would lead the young knights of both kingdoms to the Southern Kingdom, where he would fight until his inevitable death.

Bond ran his hand over his eyes.

Years ago, he had been so angry with Queen Olivia for retiring him, forcing him to glorified sentry duty at the castle. Bond saw no glory in it and had resented his handicap, the wounds that still ached and puffed with infection in the winter months. And he had been sullen for some time, until Bond had found other reasons to exist, until he had finally, _finally_ found someone he cared for deeply.

And now what?

Bond pounded his fist against the wall behind him. Once, twice, three times, because all he could hear was the way that Q had said his name, how he had laughed that morning at the Ridge, and how it had been at such odds with the way Q had spoken to him in Court, with his syllables short and hurting as he asked Bond to lead them to victory.

Q, like Bond, had a part to play, and there was nothing either of them could do to change that.

The sound of the guards moving about prompted Bond to move, to push everything that he could to the back of his mind. He had promised Q he would visit him tonight and Bond did not intend to go back on his word.

Quickly, he moved about the lower level and slipped past the tapestry near the kitchens while no guards were making their rounds. He then took the winding stairs all the way to the top of the tower. Bond placed his hand upon the door and waited, listening for the sound of any servants that might still be lingering in Q’s chambers. When he was sure there was no other soul inside but Q, Bond pushed open the door.

The room was still lit by strong flames in the hearth, indicating that Q had not yet retired. In fact, Q was very much awake, seated at his desk with a heap of books and papers in front of him, untouched. Bond felt something hot and hard rise in his throat at the sight, wondering who would read to Q when he was gone.

“Q,” Bond said.

Q didn’t look at him.

“James,” he said.

The silence that fell between them was loud with all of the things they couldn’t say.

So Bond went to him and knelt down beside the chair, all but falling into the arms that came round his shoulders and held him. He pressed his forehead to Q’s middle, breathing in the scent of him for what Bond knew would be the last time. There was no coming back, not this time. Not when Bond was far too old and too injured to do much good on the battlefield. This would be the last time.

Their first and last night.

“Please don’t,” Q said, pressing a kiss into Bond’s hair, “not right now.”

So Bond raised his head and kissed his lips and tried to forget what tomorrow would bring.

They moved to the bed, where Bond disrobed Q methodically, slowly, drinking in every detail so that it would be impossible for him to ever forget. He etched a forever impression of Q in his mind: the glow on the canvas of his skin in the firelight, the dark brushstrokes of his lashes, the blossoms of colour that made up his green eyes and his red, red lips. Bare, Q was the loveliest thing Bond had ever seen and he found that could do nothing but look upon the man below him in appreciation and wonder.

“James?” Q asked, when the silence had gone on too long. His voice sounded quiet and uncertain, as if afraid Bond had stopped out of distaste. Bond saw his hand reaching for the edge of the blanket, preparing to cover his nudity. But Bond stayed his hand, kissing the tips of his fingers adoringly.

“You’re beautiful,” Bond said, and Q’s colour heightened, a vibrant red spreading from his hairline to his navel.

“Hush,” Q said, turning his face away, and Bond laughed as he chased his mouth.

“You’re gorgeous when you blush.”

“I am not blushing!”

“You’re red to your toes!”

“I am not!”

Q hit him with a pillow playfully, and laughed when Bond tickled him in retaliation. Then, when he had Q gasping for air, Bond began kissing his way down the planes of Q’s body before his exuberance faded. Q’s breathy laughter did quiet at his affection, but turned to gentle sighs of pleasure as Bond memorised each and every line of him and all of the intersections where his joints and muscle and bird-like bones met. He kissed and dragged his tongue along those paths, tasting a different part of Q at each crossroad and bend, delighting particularly in the place at the inside of his right wrist that tasted sweeter than any honey. But was most intoxicating was how soft and virginal Q’s skin felt beneath his lips, trembling the lower Bond traveled, the more he worshiped. By the time Bond made it to Q’s hips, the other man was writhing in over stimulation.

“Do you want me to stop?” Bond asked, resting his cheek against the shelf of Q’s hip, so very close but so very far from what strained for his attention.

“I’ll put you in the stocks if you do,” Q threatened, gripping at his shoulder.

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Bond said.

Q pinched him for the formality, and Bond laughed as he put his mouth to better use.

Due to all the attention and so little experience, Q did not last long, and he seemed torn between happily sated and terribly embarrassed. Bond kissed his apologies away and--when his breathing had evened after the euphoria faded--guided Q’s hands to his own body. Q undressed him with clumsy, but eager fingers, Bond helping with the particularly difficult buttons and hooks when he sensed Q becoming frustrated.

When he was naked, Bond laid down on the bed and eased Q on top of him. Q immediately froze and looked apprehensive and uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?” Bond asked.

“I…I've never...” Q said, as he hesitantly reached out his hands and touched Bond’s face, neck, shoulders. He traced his fingertips along Bond’s clavicle, then his chest, skipping over scar tissue and bone and muscle. “I just wish I could…”

“What?” Bond asked. Q shifted and leant over him, pressing his forehead to Bond’s.

“I wish I could tell you that you’re beautiful, too,” Q said, closing his eyes. “I mean, you’re beautiful to me. You always will be. But you’re beautiful because you’re strong and kind and gentle, and because you bring me flowers and take me to watch sunrises, and because you write me poetry and sing to me even though you can’t.”

“You said you loved my singing,” said Bond.

“Of course I do, because it’s you,” Q replied. “It’s only you. It’s only ever been you and will only ever be you.”

Bond smoothed his hands down Q’s sides to distract himself from the tears that threatened his vision.

He thought of tomorrow, he thought of dying and leaving Q behind, and it tainted the moment with such a bitterness that Bond thought Q might be able to taste upon him. So Bond focused on the feeling of their skin and where it touched and the gentle beat of Q’s pulse and the moment of _now_ where they existed with no thought of tomorrow, and he forgot about weeping.

“Touch me,” Bond told him.

He took Q’s hands and brought them to his temples, to his cheeks, and then had Q move them down along his body. Bond described to him every scar and every burn, every freckle and mole and birthmark. He told stories and made up descriptions of colour and the dimensions of shapes, comparing them to songs and rain and wolves and fire and gold.

“What do you see?” Bond asked, when he had finished.

Q smiled in the way that absorbed all available light.

“Someone even more beautiful than I imagined,” Q replied, and it was Bond’s turn to flush slightly with embarrassment.

“Stop it.”

“No, I mean it. I never thought you to have such exquisite ankles.”

Bond kissed Q to keep him from laughing, and the two of them entangled again as easily and naturally as breathing. The heat of their bodies pressed against one another reminded Bond of his desires and rekindled that mutual affection in Q. With surprising dexterity, Q took both of them in hand, and it wasn’t long before they were both spent.

When the sweat dried upon their skin and cooled it, Bond pulled the heap of blankets and furs over top them to keep Q from catching a chill. His lover hummed appreciatively, curled close to Bond, his cold nose tucked beneath Bond’s chin. Bond kept his arm round Q, protective, pensieve. But he was not the only one thinking, he knew that much.

“You’re thinking,” Bond said, when the silence had become too deep and with no indication of oncoming sleep for either of them.

“Yes,” Q answered.

“Those foolish thoughts again?”

“Yes, even more so now.”

“Pray, tell. what are they?”

Q nuzzled the hollow of his throat.

“I keep thinking of this morning and how...how easy it would have been for us to keep riding. These foolish thoughts of mine...I only imagine us running away from all of this.”

“You would abandon the Kingdom?” Bond asked.

“These are foolish dreams of a soft heart,” Q assured him. “They are nothing but dreams and whimsy fantasy. My responsibilities are here.” He sighed. “But sometimes I imagine escaping it all. Being with you, someplace where we could live peacefully. Where we wouldn’t have to hide this.”

Q rose up onto his elbow then and looked down at Bond. So close, Q could see him, focus on him, and the intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming to Bond.

“But even though I know that is impossible and that the future as we know it is...bleak,” Q stopped, and frowned, but then continued: “I want you to know that...it’s yours. My heart, that is. My heart is yours, if you should still want it.”

“I want nothing more,” Bond said, taking Q’s hand, and kissing it.

Q’s expression crumbled.

“Do you have to go? Is there nothing I can do?”

“Everything that could be done, has been done,” Bond said, smoothing his palm along Q’s bare arm.

“But, James,” said Q, so very quietly that Bond almost did not hear him. “I need you here.”

“I must go. It would be dishonourable if I did not,” Bond said, the words heavy with regret. Despite this, he kissed Q’s hand again, pressing his lips to the ring upon his finger. “Just like the Queen before you, I shall fight in battle in your name.”

“I’d much rather have you here in my bed,” Q said, as he settled back down.

“And I would much rather be here in your bed,” replied Bond.

Q kissed him.

“Might I go with you?” Q asked.

“Absolutely not,” Bond replied sternly. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t have it.”

“But--”

“No. I won’t have you there.”

“Perhaps I can help in some way?”

“You can help by being here. The Kingdom needs its King now more than ever.”

Q nodded, his unfocused eyes dark and sad.

“Then promise me that you’ll return.”

“I cannot make promises I may not be able to keep,” Bond said, “but I can swear to you that I will do all in my power to return to you.”

“I suppose that is all I can ask for,” Q said.

He touched the ring on his left hand. It was not the seal of his Kingship, but the signet of another house, one that Bond supposed had belonged to his father, Sir Gaskell. Q removed it and pressed it into Bond’s palm.

“Will you take it with you?” Q asked. “For luck?”

The ring was skin warm in his hand, the delicate band so small that Bond doubted it could fit on his smallest finger.

“I cannot wear it into battle.”

“Then around your neck? To carry a small piece of me with you?”

“It would be my honour,” Bond answered.

Q draped one of the furs around him and got up out of bed. When he returned a few moments later, he carried a small leather pouch and a knife from his desk. He removed a bottle of eye drop elixir and set it on the stand by his bedside, then deposited the ring and a small cutting of his hair into the empty pouch. He placed it in Bond’s palm and wrapped his fingers around it.

“To keep you safe,” Q said, as he lay down again.

“And for you,” Bond said, removing his own ring from his right hand, which he placed on Q’s forefinger before kissing the pale peaks of his knuckles, “to keep you from being lonely.”

Q rubbed his thumb over the ring, which bore the symbol of Skyfall: a mighty stag standing proud among brambles. It was slightly too large on Q, but he did not seem keen on removing it. Such a simple gesture of devotion warmed Bond’s heart.

“You cannot die,” Q told him.

“Or you’ll be cross? Put me in the stocks?” Bond asked, trying for humour.

But Q did not smile.

“I won’t want to live.”

“Q…”

Q turned his face into the pillow, not moving even when Bond pulled him close and held him to his chest.

“I’ll be back soon. You’ll not even notice I’m gone.”

The falsehood tasted like ash upon his tongue, bitter and dry and even more painful when, against his pulse, Bond heard the exhale of one whispered word:

“ _Liar._ ”

**00Q00Q00Q**

Battle was everything that Bond remembered it to be, only less potential for glory and an even higher probability of death.

King Mallory had been incorrect when he assumed that the Southern Kingdom would be taken by surprise; they had been waiting, taking Bond’s unprepared army by surprise. During that first week, they lost many men and had been forced to make a tactical retreat, relinquishing several miles of land to the South as forfeit.

The days and nights dragged on from there. Bond constantly found himself in the red tent reviewing military strategy, issuing orders for the movement of men and supplies. He received correspondence everyday from King Mallory with requests for updates, which Bond returned in dense code. But the letters Bond ached for rarely came. Q only wrote to him a few times, in his cramped, poor script. _My affliction worsens, I fear_ Q had written in his last letter, _and it makes writing all the more trying. Please know that my dearth of letters is not out of apathy, but an unfortunate side effect of my condition. When awake, you are always in my thoughts, and while I sleep, you are always in my dreams. Until I have you home, I can only pray for your safe return, my love. Always, Q._

Bond kept the letter in the pouch around his neck, close to his heart in the weeks that followed. It grew colder and colder with the oncoming winter and Bond grew weary when no new letters arrived from Q during that time. Fearing the worst, Bond sent correspondence almost every day, but all of his letters went unanswered. His heart became heavy and sick that Bond could scarcely eat or sleep. The men worried, he knew. He heard them whispering in their tents at night, or amongst themselves at mealtimes when Bond would not join them.

And then, Bond felt his spirits lift when a letter finally arrived, two days after the first snow.

But Bond’s excitement faded when he saw that the letter had not been sent from Q. It was from Tanner, who had written hastily, but sincerely: _Sir Bond, I hope that this correspondence finds you well. I write with a heavy heart, that our King’s affliction has reached its final stage. Despite the attempts of healers, there has been no progress in restoring what has been lost. Our King has asked that I not relay this information to you during these troubled times, but I thought it imperative that you be told at once. I am certain you know why, and I hope that this may serve as an opportunity for you to return to the Kingdom at once on personal business. I pray for you to return expediently, for I sense that King Mallory may use these unfortunate events to his advantage. Your ever faithful servant, William Tanner._

The letter trembled in his hands. Tanner had been tasteful with the message in fear of interception, but the message was clear. Q had lost what was left of his sight. King Mallory knew, and might attempt to take over Q’s territory, his title, everything.

Bond could not wait another moment.

He found Sir Brosnan and placed him in charge, explaining that an urgent manner called him back to the castle. Then he met with the men on their way north to their second supply hold and arranged a time for them to depart. Before midday, Bond and the small group of men left camp in a hurry, toward the snow covered passages to the north. They were making good time, clearing the hills and forest before it became too dark.

But then, they were ambushed.

They were atop Winter Pass, overlooking the Black River, and if Bond squinted, he could just make out the path that would lead them through King Mallory’s lands and toward home. They still had another day and a half of riding, and were preparing to settle down for the night to rest, when the men appeared out of the forest.

Bond did not see the first of them until an arrow came and pierced through the heart of the man nearest him. At the shouts the men gave up, the horses reared and tried to escape their tieposts, struggling even more as their enemies revealed themselves. There were only ten, all wearing the crest of the Southern Kingdom, but formidable with darkness approaching and the deadly drop where the cliff ended behind them. And then there was Bond, the only Knight among them, old and injured and undoubtedly outmatched.

But still, Bond fought, slaying three and incapacitating a fourth. Two ran off in pursuit of most of Bond’s party, who had fled into the woods. A third followed, but Bond believed it to be out of fear instead of chase. The remaining three came slowly toward Bond, not at all a fair one-on-one fight. With the rest of his men slain, Bond was all alone, and he held out his sword and shield to prepare himself for a difficult combat. He would not go down without fighting, not when Q needed him, when the Kingdom needed him.

The men rained down blows upon him viciously. After weeks of worry and cold and poor appetite, Bond's strength began to fade. It was only a matter of time before Bond could not parry or defend himself. A blade caught him in his bad shoulder, another in his side, and before Bond could right himself, he felt the Earth tip beneath him. The ground of Winter Pass disappeared and he saw the trees give way to sky, yawning open to nothing but the last vestiges of light bleeding into the indigo night. And he was falling, falling, falling, down, down, _down_ toward the Black River…and then.

Then there was nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was actually split into two due to length. I'm not entirely happy with it, but this is the best cut off place that I can determine :3 Next part will be out soon~ xx

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued... ?


End file.
